Insurance Won't Cover Apocalypses
by Konstantya
Summary: Vincent finally reveals the reason behind why the bottom half of his face was always covered, and it isn’t nearly as romantic as some might have thought. Also, Tifa briefly contemplates the unnecessary complexity of everyday domestic items.


**General Note:** I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So If the formatting is weird (like, say, there _aren't any scene breaks where there should be_), please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

Obligatory (but ultimately pointless) CYA: I don't own it.

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**Insurance Won't Cover Apocalypses (But Listerine Kills Germs That Cause Bad Breath)  
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It was a beautiful day for those in _Avalanche_. Beautiful, meaning the sun was shining, the trees were green and flourishing, the birds were singing, the hills were alive with the sound of music, and the apocalypse had just been averted the other day by the defeat of a long-haired, pretty-boy madman called Sephiroth and the destruction of a huge-ass meteor called…Meteor.

Cid Highwind—vulgar, chain smoker extraordinaire—in all his piloting glory, had managed to navigate the turbulent air conditions all the way to Rocket Town, where he intended to land the _Highwind_ very gently and very professionally. Instead, much to Cid's chagrin, it landed very unceremoniously and very roughly, and in doing so, sustained quite a bit of damage. So instead of returning to his house, at which point he would whisk Shera into his arms, admit that he'd been an insufferable asshole, give her a hard, smoky kiss that would make her hair tousled and her glasses crooked, he instead leapt out to survey the damage, swore a good ten times, lit up a cigarette to calm his nerves, and demanded some goddamn tea.

Which was probably just as well, because as great as it all sounded in his head, it was a lot easier to smoke half a pack of cigarettes and yell at his crew to start repairs after a relieved round of drinks than it was to apologize to Shera.

Damn woman and her patience. If she would have just gotten pissed off at him, made a particular vulgar gesture at him with a particular finger and told him to stick his cigarettes and tea kettle where the sun didn't shine, then had proceeded to walk out on him in the past than she wouldn't have been around long enough for him to start really caring about her, and he wouldn't have this problem in the first place.

Damn woman. It was always her fault.

No. Wait a minute. Something about that logic wasn't right.

It wasn't her fault. He was just an asshole, and that knowledge made his disposition when working on repairs even worse. That being, it was difficult for anyone in the general vicinity to go more than five seconds without hearing a string of expletives, and if they weren't in an uncensored story, the pound symbols, asterisks, ampersands, and all other special characters above the numbers on a keyboard would be clamoring to start a union against abuse and overworked conditions.

Tifa, quite sure she had heard all possible combinations and derivatives of the words, "damn," "shit," "ass," "bastard," "bitch," and "fuck," (and probably some _im_possible combinations, however that worked), decided to give her ears a break and take a turn about town. Maybe she could buy a pair of spandex aerobic shorts to wear under her skirt or—gods forbid it!—a pair of pants. However, the occasional panty shot that could be seen for miles around tended to take enemies (at least the human ones) by surprise, and while Tifa was known to have problems expressing her romantic emotions, she had absolutely no qualms with flashing the whole of the planet her underwear.

So the whole possibility of getting a less-revealing pair of pants or even a skirt with a built in pair of shorts could probably be put on hold for the time being. Modesty obviously wasn't a big priority for Tifa.

She was wandering past the weapons shop, looking across the way at a man trying to get a very reluctant and very hostile chocobo into a stable when someone with a tall familiarity exited from the shop. Had it not been for a strong whiff of mint that caught her attention, Tifa would have walked straight into him, he had been so quiet.

She stopped in her tracks, rather surprised to see him, and then realized the last time she had done so had been sometime the day before. "Vincent!"

He inclined his head at her in a respectful nod. "Hello, Tifa."

"Hey—where'd your cloak go?" she asked, thoroughly surprised to see the bottom half of his face, thin, angular jaw line, lips and all.

"I traded it," he explained simply.

"Oh." Tifa paused for a moment. "Wait! Traded it? For what!"

Vincent reached into his traveling pack, pulling out a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a bottle of Listerine (which was about half gone). He merely looked at her, holding the items, as if they should have been enough of an explanation in and of themselves.

One of Tifa's dark eyebrows quirked up severely while the other quirked down severely. "Huh?" She knew her responses were not sounding particularly articulate or even intelligent, but really. Who would trade a cloak like that, blood-red and all, in remarkably good condition, which was well-constructed, and a garment that ultimately looked cool and very "I'll kick your ass"…for dental hygiene products?

Hell, if it wouldn't have been so big on her, _she_ would have taken it. And paid Vincent plenty more in total than what a toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash must have cost.

Though, to the ex-Turk's credit, the toothbrush was top of the line, complete with a flexible handle, rubber grippies where your fingers were apparently supposed to go but never really _went_, three types of specialized bristles, and designed to get into all those hard-to-reach places, like the sides of teeth and those pesky crevices of back molars and wisdom teeth (if one was lucky enough to not need them removed). And if Tifa knew anything about simple tools which were somehow made ridiculously complicated (as was the case with modern toothbrushes), it would also practically give the user a complete polishing job, was inexplicably aerodynamic enough to rival a nose-diving eagle, and could balance one's checkbook to boot.

It _was_ a kick-ass toothbrush, she had to admit. It even had deep red accents of color. If it turned out that it could double as a gun, she was positive that there would be no other toothbrush more perfect for Vincent.

The toothpaste wasn't quite as impressive, but put on a good show nonetheless, boasting "extra-whitening!" and "with tartar control!" and "fights gingivitis!" and "maximum strength!" and "fresh mint taste!"

Vincent had said nothing, but the realization had seeped into Tifa. "Wait. You're saying you had _bad breath?_ And _that_ was why you wore that thing?"

"Sleeping for almost thirty years in a stuffy coffin gives you one hell of a case of morning breath," he elaborated in his emotionless tone. "I was afraid I had developed halitosis. In truth, I only kept the cloak for so long because I didn't want to offend any of the others. Your lives were, and probably still are, difficult enough without a distraction such as that."

"So…why didn't you brush your teeth earlier? I mean, I know we were saving the planet and all, but we occasionally shacked up at an inn and went to stores often enough…"

Vincent looked off to the side, uncomfortable and what seemed to be a little embarrassed. "…I was…too busy atoning for all my sins, mainly for not preventing the death of my dear Lucrecia."

Tifa regarded him with half-closed eyes, crossing her arms. "I'm sure she would have allowed you five minutes of personal hygiene," she said flatly.

"All right, so I was and still am unemployed and perpetually broke, and was both too stubborn and too prideful to ask for some money," he caved, shoulders slumping sulkily. He really wished he hadn't traded the cloak to begin with, as he would have loved to sulk behind it in secret rather than out in the open.

"And so you got rid of your cloak? I thought you liked the thing. At least, that was always the impression I got, the way you would sometimes dramatically toss the cape part back," she said, imitating the gesture with her arms.

It was very strange, Tifa realized, to be having a more or less normal conversation with Vincent, of all people, so soon after they averted the apocalypse.

Vincent had recomposed himself. "I was never particularly fond of wearing it (which greatly soured my already depressed soul), but it was either the red cloak or a purple scarf with big pink hearts, both of which were strangely enough in Hojo's lab upon my waking. When faced with those options, it was an easy decision to make."

Tifa nodded understandingly, as her mental image of Vincent with a purple scarf with pink hearts was significantly less intimidating than Vincent with a blood-red, floor-length, high-collared cloak. Or maybe, in some strange way, even more intimidating. How surreally frightening would it be to have a large, high-powered rifle aimed at you by a pale, rake-thin man with red eyes, a gold claw, and a purple and pink scarf? The juxtaposition would be both ridiculous and terrifying, Tifa was sure, and wondering about that was hurting her brain less than wondering why Hojo (certainly not a ladies' man) would be in possession of a decidedly feminine scarf.

Then Tifa made the realization that she and Cloud and the rest of _Avalanche_ had been there when Vincent woke from his coffin, and there had never been an interlude where he made a fashion decision.

She stared at him, both confused and skeptical. Along with having a guilt-complex, perhaps Vincent Valentine was a compulsive liar as well. "Vincent," she said, in that low, no-nonsense tone mothers often use when pointlessly interrogating their child about whether or not they did something the mothers already know the kid did.

The morose ex-Turk was oblivious to this. "Yes?"

"When we found you, you were wearing your cloak."

"I inexplicably woke up before you and the rest of _Avalanche_ came to the mansion."

"Inexplicably," she repeated dubiously.

"'Inexplicably' in the way fan fiction writers will inexplicably throw an ill-contrived plot device or hole or the like into a story for little more than cheap humor."

Tifa nodded again with complete and immediate comprehension. "Ahh, of course. Like all those comments about my breasts," she added under her breath.

Vincent quirked an eyebrow, wondering if he had just heard what he thought he had heard. "I beg your pardon?"

She waved the topic off with a gesture of her hand. "Nothing, nothing," she muttered quickly before looking back up at him. "But still—_just_ bad breath? You were genetically altered, had your left arm replaced with a claw, and spent approximately thirty years in a coffin having nightmares, and you're saying your _breath_ was intolerable? Maybe it's just me, but it seems your breath would be the _least_ of your worries."

"Suffering thirty years of nightmares, guilt, and unrequited love is far different from suffering from a rancid smell emanating from my own mouth."

Tifa thought for a second, and then shrugged apologetically. She couldn't disagree with a point very well if she couldn't form an argument against it. And while his reasoning _did_ seem a little off-kilter, _she_ hadn't been the one locked in a coffin for almost three decades.

Maybe it was a pet peeve of his. Or maybe he was obsessive compulsive (a condition which would be surprisingly easy to imagine Vincent having). After all, had it truly been necessary to use half a bottle of Listerine?

Come on, _Listerine!_ That shit burns with just a few milliliters.

Vincent had gathered his things into his traveling pack, slung it over his shoulder, checked his gun at his hip, and promptly set off without one more word. Tifa, upon noticing this, half-ran after him to catch up, falling in step next to him.

"So…what are you going to do now?" she asked.

Vincent sighed, both melodramatic and bored. "I suppose I could let Yuffie drag me off to Wutai and our relationship will somehow develop into romance, despite how I hardly consider myself the type to be attracted to hyper-active teenagers. Or I could profess my undying love for _you_, despite how I'm emotionally scarred beyond belief and should, in all probable cases, be incapable of ever loving again. Or I could set off on a journey alone, determined to resurrect Lucrecia, despite how reviving a woman who didn't love me and who has been dead for about thirty years couldn't conceivably work any better than resurrecting a water-logged, probably half-decayed Aeris Gainsborough."

"You forgot about how you could have hot, comforting man love with Cid or Cloud," Tifa added a bit too brightly.

Vincent frowned and shifted his eyes off to the side, uncomfortable. "I was trying to avoid those, thank you," he muttered.

"Or with Sephiro—"

_"Thank you, _Tifa," he all but growled, stopping in his stride in front of a café and whirling around to face her (an action that was far less impressive without the cloak, she noted). Some other words escaped his lips, low and under his breath, which sounded suspiciously like, "thirty years because of a woman," and, "have no problems with alternative sexualities, but one penis is enough for me" and, "what does a former assassin have to do to be deemed heterosexual around here?"

Let alone that the last suggestion had just died the other day, and was the son of his past love.

And then there was the supposed possibility that _he_ had been the father…

Eww.

On that note, _had_ he had sex with Lucrecia? He couldn't remember.

Maybe _that_ was why she had dumped him.

_(Begin hypothetical flashback)  
_Lucrecia: _(affectionate)_ …So much for my mother's opinion that all Turks are assholes and I should date a nice, respectable doctor. Remember last night when we made sweet, sweet love and you swore that I would be the only woman you ever loved?  
Vincent: _(confused)_ No.  
_(End hypothetical flashback)_

Hmm.

There was a significant pause of silence.

"Oh," Tifa finally said. Another slight pause. "Well, if you're not going to do any of those, then what _will_ you do?"

"I am going to get a cup of coffee, then dutifully stay for the celebration party someone is bound to have because every party needs a pooper, and then…well, I will burn that bridge when I come to it."

"Cross."

"Pardon?"

"Cross that bridge," she corrected. "You said 'burn.' "

Vincent blinked, then shrugged in such a blasé way it was made terribly apparent that he had been a Turk. "Old habits die hard." And before Tifa could feel properly uncomfortable because of such a comment, he had opened the door to the café and held it for her with a questioning look. She shook her head, declining, and while he disappeared into the building, she continued her idle walk around the town, taking her time. Cid had an inexhaustible store of curses, and there would be more than plenty left for her to hear upon her return.

In the meantime, Tifa was rather content to enjoy another day without a large rock of an apocalypse hanging in the sky.

Ah, yes, life was good.

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A/N: Lately I've been into snarky, parody fics. I think it shows. As always, reviews are welcome!


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